cel out the forward speed and thus lighten
impact. But there was only a light, variable
breeze-perhaps two knots.
What to do? We hesitated, balancing the
risks of injury against the time remaining
for our first job on the ground: preparing an
airstrip for the expedition's two planes.
The date was August 5, 1963. Our biolo
gists and second exploring team would have
to be flown in and all hands flown out before
September's drenching rains. A year's work
hung in the balance.
I asked Dick Tomkins, at the controls, for
his opinion. He was our chief pilot and our
most experienced parachutist.
"I'd say it's inadvisable," he replied. Then
he laughed. "But I'd do it anyway."
We circled in the clouds as occasional rain
splattered the windshield. I turned to Gimbel.
"I think we should," he said.
272
For a few more thoughtful moments we
studied the terrain through breaks in the
cloud cover.
"O.K.," I said. "Let's drop our duffel bag
and panel markers."
Soft Ground Poses a Hard Problem
The plane came in 300 feet above the cen
tral clearing, one of three we had spotted on
the mountain shelf. As the first grass appeared
under us, we pushed out the heavy duffel bag
containing our sleeping bags and personal
gear, and watched it fall until it hit the earth
with terrific impact, half burying itself. We
could see that a dark flower had opened
around it. It looked like mud-a built-in
cushion for a parachute landing.
Our reaction to this sight was a simultane
ous guffaw of relief. But now there was an
other problem: Ground that might be per-